


Reciprocated

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Requited [2]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2668067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Freed has been doing his best to not think about Laxus." Freed tries to stay calm, and nearly succeeds before Laxus ruins his attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reciprocated

Freed has been doing his best to not think about Laxus.

It has proven impossibly difficult, a doomed attempt even from the start; he couldn’t keep his mind off the blond when Laxus  _wasn’t_  around, he’s a complete wreck when he’s guaranteed to see the other man at least once a day and often more. But Laxus has barely spoken to him, has been caught up in evening conversations Freed is hesitant to interrupt and absorbed in training during the day, and after the first week he realized there was no way for him to bring up the pair of kisses they exchanged -- one drunk, one sober -- just after their return from Tenroujima. It’s the second that haunts him, lingers in his thoughts and keeps him awake at night; his own impetuous stupidity is easy to explain, if horribly embarrassing, but Freed has played over the next day’s interaction, the brief press of Laxus’s mouth against his and the declaration that ‘it’s not you’ so many times he can’t even be sure now that it even happened at all. He certainly can’t bring it up, not when Laxus is making no direct attempt to interact with him in specific, and every day that goes by leaves Freed more certain that it never  _is_  going to come up.

He hasn’t given up, exactly -- after years of one-sided devotion, Freed isn’t sure he knows  _how_  to give up anymore -- but it’s easier if he can think about something else, if he can distract himself with something idle and unimportant. The royal city is a help, even from the tiny room where he’s staying during the Games; there’s only barely space for a bed too large for the room, but there is a window set high into the wall, and if he stands in front of it while brushing his hair out he can let his eyes skim idly over the lights below, the distance-shortened figures still moving even at the late hour, and he can almost forget the dull ache of want in his chest.

Far better a distraction is the pounding at the door. It makes him jump, startles even the self-pity right out of him for a moment, and he’s still caught in the adrenaline-confusion of curiosity when he maneuvers around the bed to get the door open. He barely thinks to set the brush down on the table tucked into the corner, certainly doesn’t have time to tie his hair back before he turns the handle to open the door.

“Yes?” he starts, polite habit guiding him without thought before he’s yet seen the visitor. Then his eyes come into focus on broad shoulders, he tips his head up to meet grey eyes, and the rest of his voice dies into a breathless whine.

“Yo.” Laxus looks utterly unfazed by the tingling panic Freed can feel coursing down his spine and freezing him in place. “Can I come in?”

Freed nods, instinctive obedience moving him to the side before he can get his throat to relax enough to say, “Of course.” There is another flush of nerves as Laxus tips his head to clear the doorway and steps inside -- the room is small, after all, there’s no space for Freed to hide anything from the other’s eyes -- but when he gives the room a rushed glance there’s nothing to see anyway, just the brush on the table, his boots in the corner and his overcoat folded across the back of the chair.

“I wanted to talk.” Laxus reaches out to catch the edge of the door, above Freed’s static hold on the handle; when he tugs Freed loses his slack grip, abandons the weight to Laxus’s pull so the blond can shove it shut behind him.

“Oh.” Freed can’t stop staring at the edge of the door, the focus on the frame safer to maintain than considering what Laxus could want to talk about, why he didn’t wait until the morning, why he shut the door behind him. The room was small before but now it’s tiny; Laxus’s presence is filling the entire space between the door and the bed, until Freed feels like he can’t take a breath that isn’t sparking with energy radiating off the other.

Laxus coughs. The sound pulls Freed’s attention off the door and back to the blond’s face, and then he can’t look away, he’s as trapped by the shape of Laxus’s mouth and the soft spike of his hair as he always is. Laxus shrugs his shoulders like he’s getting comfortable, clears his throat, and fixes Freed with a stare that sends all the other’s blood flashing into raw heat. He hadn’t realized Laxus hasn’t been looking at him, but in comparison now he’s suddenly not sure the blond has really  _seen_  him since he came back to the guild.

“Not talking, actually.” Laxus’s voice is lower than usual; it takes Freed a minute to realize he’s pitching his words softer, gentler than usual, and he’s still caught in the first shivering surprise of that when Laxus steps forward, and now there is  _truly_  not enough space. Freed is eye-level with Laxus’s shoulder, Laxus is too close for him to watch the blond’s face without tilting his head far back, and since he can’t trust himself to move he just stays still, his eyes fixed on the gold-tan skin he can see just inside the dark purple of the blond’s collar.

Fingers touch his chin. If Freed weren’t so petrified he would jump at the contact, would whimper with the instant need to catalogue every detail of the hand urging his head up and back. But his breathing is stuttering into panic, instinct and habitual disappointment too strong to be overcome by the blatant situational implications, and then he’s looking up into Laxus’s eyes from close enough range that he can see when the blond’s gaze drops from his own eyes to his mouth.

There isn’t any time to react. Freed barely has a moment to realize what Laxus looking at his mouth implies, and Laxus is already leaning in, his fingers still firm at Freed’s chin to hold him in place. It’s for the best, in the end, that there’s that point of contact, because when Laxus’s mouth presses against him Freed whimpers, and shivers, and reaches out blind to grab for whatever support he can reach. Silky-smooth fabric pulls through his grasp, catches on calluses he didn’t know he had, but his other hand is on Laxus’s shoulder, he can feel the heat of the blond’s body through the thin cloth, and then Laxus pushes against his lips in unspoken demand, and Freed opens his mouth and his situational awareness vanishes along with the stiff panic in his veins. Laxus’s hand is at his chin, sliding away now that it’s clear Freed isn’t pulling away, curling against the side of his throat, just against his racing pulse. When Freed gets his hand up to slip over Laxus’s shoulder and against his back the blond’s other hand settles at his waist, drifts down to brace at his hip. Freed’s lips are tingling with unaccustomed friction, Laxus’s tongue is tracing sensation across the roof of his mouth, and when Freed tentatively brushes it with his own Laxus makes a noise so far back in his throat it sounds like a growl and presses in closer. He’s irrationally warm, radiating heat straight through his clothes until Freed feels like he’s melting, like he can’t even remember how to do anything but go pliant and warm against the casual intensity of Laxus’s movements.

He doesn’t realize the blond has pulled away for a moment. His head is spinning too hard for him to focus, he’s tugging at Laxus’s shirt without thinking of it, and it’s not until he hears “Hey,” in the rough familiarity of the blond’s voice that Freed can collect himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and “Yes,” and starts to let his hold go, eases his fists into deliberate relaxation as some of the self-consciousness comes back to cringe through his actions.

“You have your own room, right?” Laxus isn’t pulling away, like Freed more than half-expected him to. If anything Freed thinks his hand might be sliding lower, coming around the line of the other’s hip to skirt along dangerous territory.

“What?” Freed asks although he heard perfectly well, and then Laxus’s hand drops right over the edge of suggestive into unmistakable and his voice squeaks high instead. “ _Oh_.  _Yes_.”

“They don’t give us our own rooms,” Laxus says. He’s pulling Freed in closer, hooking one thumb under the top of Freed’s pants to press in against bare skin. His mouth is so close when he huffs out the air ruffles through the other’s loose hair. “Supposed to bond with the team or something.”

“Ah,” Freed says. His hands are starting to shake, he’s staring at Laxus’s shoulder and seeing nothing of the silken fabric in front of his eyes. “Perhaps you ought to be there.”

He doesn’t mean it as resistance. He can hear his voice dipping soft with resignation in spite of the rush of pounding hope in his veins; it’s easier, really, to prepare for disappointment than to let himself hope, the route to that emotion worn smooth with repetition.

Laxus makes a sound that comes out so much like a growl Freed doesn’t realize the blond is laughing for a moment. “Nah.” His mouth is at Freed’s forehead, now, not kissing him as much as brushing against the skin, and Freed can feel his bones melting him sideways, tilting his head at an angle to offer himself for more. “I’m gonna stay here.” His lips draw a little tighter, form the outline of a kiss, and there’s a flicker of damp, his tongue brushing over skin, before he pulls away. “Unless you don’t want me here.”

There’s unconscious arrogance under the words, a trailing edge of confusion as Laxus even contemplates the possibility, but Freed doesn’t mind. If the idea of Freed not wanting him is confusing for Laxus it’s unthinkable for Freed, so alarmingly opposed to his trembling anticipation that he nearly shouts “No!” before his hands reform into anxious fists.

“No, I.” Freed’s throat goes tight, desperation cutting off his speech with too many words and too little confidence.  _I want you_  is true but not enough,  _I love you_  too much, perhaps,  _stay_  too much of a command. He just stands there, his mouth open on the words he can’t or won’t say until the pause has stretched long enough that even Laxus feels the weight of it. The hand against Freed’s neck tightens, loosens, and Freed can’t make himself look up without the cover of his hair to hide behind.

“‘Kay,” Laxus says, like Freed has said anything useful at all. When he looks up, startled into eye contact by confusion, Laxus catches his mouth with his and all the stalled sound turns into a whimper. The fingers against his skin drag sideways, feel out the collar of his shirt, and when the first button comes undone Freed thinks he might pass out and can’t find it in him to care. All he can do is duck his head, stare blind with disbelief at Laxus’s shoulder while the blond’s fingers steadily work down his clothes, sliding buttons free of cloth until Freed’s shirt is open to the cool of the room and all his skin is flushed hot with expectation and self-consciousness. Laxus makes a sound in the back of his throat, warm and purring appreciation, and that doesn’t help, Freed can feel his blush deepen into visibility high over his cheekbones, but fingers are dragging over his shoulders and pushing his shirt loose. So he ducks his head farther, until his hair starts to slip over his shoulders to curtain his face in shadow, and lets Laxus bare him to the waist as his shirt falls to crumple to the floor. The embarrassed awareness is worth it for the drag of Laxus’s fingers across his shoulders, down against the untouched skin of his back; the contact leaves a trail of heat so tangible Freed is still breathless when Laxus pulls his hands away and steps back out of reach.

The motion counters the shyness, enough to bring Freed’s chin up so he can see what Laxus is doing. A part of him -- the insecure part -- is still expecting Laxus to pull away, to grimace at the sunless white of his skin and turn to leave. But the blond is just looking down at his own shirt, twisting the buttons free in a quick pattern of familiarity, and then he’s shrugging off the color and all Freed’s consideration for himself fades into appreciation of Laxus. He’s seen the blond shirtless before, has memorized the clean lines of ink tattooed around his chest and shoulder to bracket his guild mark. But it’s one thing to see it at a distance, to consider it aesthetically, and another to have Laxus stepping in closer, to feel the warmth of that shadowed skin against his until Freed feels like he’s the one being marked, painlessly branded into something warmer and brighter and more alive.

“Laxus,” he says to the blond’s shoulder, where his mouth is pressed by the pull of Laxus’s arms around his shoulders. He couldn’t pull away if he cared enough to try, if he wanted to be anywhere other than exactly here and exactly now. He knows he should be reciprocating, lifting his arms gone heavy with uncertainty to rest his hands against the shifting strength in Laxus’s back, but he can’t lift his arms and he can’t move his feet and he can barely think. “Do you really want…?”

He can hear the whine in his throat as the question comes out, bites off the plea into silence rather than admitting to the shivering uncertainty rolling under his skin. But Laxus doesn’t push him away, the hold around his shoulders goes tight enough to catch Freed’s breathing shallow and desperate, and when Laxus says, “Of course,” Freed shuts his eyes and lets the words settle into the shape of belief in his head.

It’s not far to go to the bed. It’s a few stumbling steps at most, and with Laxus’s hands glowing at his shoulders Freed barely notices he’s moving until he hits the edge of the mattress, hard enough that he drops to sit before he thinks it through. Laxus seems bigger when he looks up, broad-shouldered and looming with height as if he’s finally taking on the size and shape he always has in Freed’s mind. But this is more, this is more even than Freed has let himself consider in even his wildest fantasies, and Laxus is leaning in to push him back over the sheets and Freed can’t think straight to do anything but capitulate. The bed is soft but Laxus’s hands are rough, the texture across his fingertips and the edge of his palm catching and holding all Freed’s attention as the blond huffs a sigh and starts to drag his hand down against the other’s waist.

“Freed.” It’s not the precursor to an order, not a request for attention; it’s low, purring more than anything else, and when Laxus dips his head to settle his mouth against Freed’s shoulder Freed realizes that’s the same appreciative tone he usually takes himself when speaking of the other. Laxus isn’t kissing him, exactly, and he’s not biting either, just resting his mouth on the other’s skin while his hand draws a straight-line shortcut across Freed’s waist, over his stomach and down to the top edgeof his pants.

Freed doesn’t jerk away at the contact. He doesn’t move at all, in fact, just goes still and frozen in place as if Laxus’s touch left frost in its wake instead of heat. He can feel self-consciousness cresting red in his cheeks, embarrassment prickling into his spine and the tips of his fingers as the edge of Laxus’s wrist just grazes the resistance of his body still trapped under the last layer of clothes. It’s too much, to have Laxus even accidentally brushing against him, it startles away his breathing until he’s still and breathless as one of Ever’s statues with only the color staining his cheeks to speak to his existence.

Laxus hums, a low rumble of appreciation vibrating right through his chest, and if his wrist was bad his fingers rapidly prove to be worse. He’s not even under Freed’s clothes yet, just sliding the weight of his palm down against the other’s body, but Freed’s throat closes on the sensation and his breathing comes out as a hiss, and he would be dead of embarrassment if there were space for anything but the burn of that long-awaited friction in his mind. Laxus is purring again, the careful sound of pleasure rolling over his tongue, and leaning back over his knees to free both his hands at once. Freed doesn’t realize the implications of this, is too far gone in the response of his own body to process anything until Laxus’s fingers are tugging at the front of his clothes, working buttons and zipper free to pull his pants down off his hips and leave his legs as bare as his chest.

It should be embarrassing. Freed is starting to sit up as soon as he realizes what Laxus is doing, reaching out as if to stop the movement of his hand. But there are fingers against him, the electric heat of a hand larger and stronger than his own, and instead of pushing Freed’s hand closes into a desperate hold at Laxus’s wrist, his spine curls in so his forehead hits the blond’s shoulder.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps in lieu of anything more coherent, gratitude or panic or interest alike, and Laxus makes a tiny sound of curiosity, slides his thumb sideways so Freed jerks under his touch. “ _Oh_  god,  _Laxus_.”

“Lie back.” Laxus’s voice is too close, his lips are so near to Freed’s ear that the words are painfully loud. Freed’s fingers tighten, self-defense telling him to stay where is is, half-hidden in the shadow of his shoulders and blocking Laxus’s line of sight; then he takes an anxious breath, lets his hold go and leans back as commanded, because in the end he’ll always obey Laxus’s orders.

He can’t stand to look at Laxus for a moment. It’s easier to shut his eyes, to press his lips tight in an attempt to close off the whine of appreciation as the blond’s fingers slide experimentally over him. Freed can feel himself twitching under Laxus’s touch, his reaction embarrassingly obvious even to himself, but Laxus is still humming, a low unbroken noise that sounds like appreciation, and after a moment he tugs at Freed’s pants to strip them off entirely. Freed doesn’t manage to open his eyes until Laxus lets him go; then he risks it, squinting through his eyelashes first to see the blond isn’t even looking at him. He’s frowning in concentration, digging through his pocket like he’s looking for something; Freed’s caught by the unconscious pout of his lower lip, entranced into aesthetic appreciation until Laxus’s expression shifts into satisfaction and he slides his hand free with a small bottle pressed against his palm.

“This is okay, right?” It’s a question but only barely; Laxus is assuming agreement, twisting the cap of the bottle off and slicking his fingers with liquid before Freed has managed to formulate a jerky nod of assent around his flaming blush. His whole body is tingling like he’s about to burst into flames, like all his skin is aching to be touched, until when Laxus drops his hand at the other’s hip to brace him to the bed Freed jerks and nearly groans before he can choke the sound back.

Laxus glances at him, but whatever he sees in Freed’s expression soothes away the faint flicker of concern in his eyes. He looks away, down between Freed’s legs, and Freed is sure, for just a minute, that his heart is going to shatter under the pressure of anticipation and panic burning together in his blood. His mouth is still open around the impossibility of an inhale when Laxus’s fingers brush against him, feeling out the curve of his skin, and the whimper he makes is all desperate hope without any of the self-conscious shyness still collecting in his cheeks.

“Relax,” Laxus offers, the word more order than advice. Reflex drops Freed boneless to the bed, forces a slow inhale into his lungs, and he’s just letting it go when Laxus tips his hand and slides a finger inside him.

Laxus’s fingers are broader than Freed’s own, wider and a little clumsier without the instant feedback of Freed’s body to guide their movements. But they are  _Laxus’s_ , after all, and that one change is enough to override whatever inexperienced awkwardness the blond exhibits. Freed’s whole body flushes warm, like he’s blushing everywhere at once, but his self-conscious evaporates with the heat until he doesn’t hesitate before arching off the sheets in an attempt to get closer to Laxus’s touch. Laxus makes a faint sound, a rumble of what sounds a lot like appreciation, and when he slides his finger in deeper Freed shudders, lifts an arm to half-cover his face so Laxus won’t see the warmth of pleasure climbing over his cheekbones.

“You done this before with someone else?” Laxus asks after a moment. He makes it sound casual, like he doesn’t really care about the answer, but his movements go still as he speaks, the friction of his hand stalled into nervous anticipation for a moment. It’s hard for Freed to steady his voice, impossible to form the words he needs; instead he just shakes his head without lifting his arm, moves his head enough that Laxus will be able to see the motion without the necessity of uncovering his features.

“Oh.” Laxus slides his hand back, far enough that he can slide another finger in alongside the first. It’s almost too much, the pair of them along with the greater width of his fingers, but Freed breathes out in a rush and Laxus presses back into him, stretching him open with a flush of sensation so he almost misses the next word. “Good.” There’s a pause, a shift as Laxus changes his angle and draws his hand back, a cough as the blond clears his throat. “I mean it’d be okay if you had.” He’s pushing back in, he’s drawing out sensation Freed’s never managed alone, his words are coming warm and Freed  _must_  be imagining the softness under his voice. “But I’m glad it’s me.”

Freed’s throat tightens, his breath comes out as a whine. There’s too much he wants to say, too many words vying for control of his lips and tongue, and in the end nothing comes out but a moan, faint and breathy and sounding utterly debauched even in his own ears. He can feel the tremor that runs through Laxus’s arm, the sudden shove of the blond’s fingers into him before the other is pulling back, his fingers and the brace of his hand both drawing away.

“You’re okay,” Laxus is saying, and it’s half a question and half a statement and Freed isn’t about to argue. He’s not entirely sure he can speak, anyway, and then he hears the sound of a zipper and his arm falls free, he’s sitting up without any conscious decision to do so. Laxus isn’t looking at him; his chin is tipped down, his shoulders flexing as he pushes his pants off his hips and shifts to tug his legs free, but his clothes slide off and bare skin in their wake and Freed is reaching out all unthinking to touch his fingers to the glow he can almost see coming off Laxus. He panics at the last moment, starts to snatch his hand back so his fingertips only graze against the blond’s hip, but Laxus groans and lets one of his hands go, closes his fingers at Freed’s wrist to pull his hand back in.

“Keep going.” He sounds shaken, like the deadpan of his usual tone is cracking away to reveal humanity underneath, like he might be as susceptible to the burn of sensation as Freed feels himself becoming. The length of himis hot under the other’s touch, warmer than the chill of Freed’s shaking fingertips and harder than Freed expected. Freed’s head is spinning, too much concentration and a desperate need to remember  _everything_  swamping his self-awareness so he doesn’t even blush at Laxus’s fingers at his hip, doesn’t lean back to the bed until Laxus presses in closer, sighs against his jaw and catches Freed’s mouth with his again. The damp of his mouth shatters Freed’s attention, pulls his balance out from under him so he falls back to the sheets, but Laxus is following him, humming again even though Freed’s fingers have slipped loose, shifting his weight in closer so the press of his hips angles Freed’s legs apart.

It’s so much more than Freed was expecting. He’s shaking uncontrollably, the adrenaline making his fingers shake like leaves in a high wind, and his hair is tangled under his shoulders till he’s sure the knots will never come free. The bed is nearly too small -- he can reach out and touch the wall over his head and Laxus is barely on the end of the mattress -- and Laxus’s fingers at his hip are pushing so hard it’s starting to ache. But it’s all perfect, better than anything Freed’s ever imagined before because Laxus is  _actually_  here, he’s warm and solid and  _real_ , shape and substance even Freed’s best fantasies have never achieved. Laxus rocks in closer, near enough that his cock bumps against the underside of Freed’s, and all Freed’s desperate consideration of the situation skitters out into a gasp, all the tension in his skin shivers into one jerk of reaction.

“Sorry,” Laxus says, like there’s anything at all to apologize for, but Freed can’t form the words to tell him otherwise and Laxus isn’t waiting. He’s looking down between them, shifting a hand between them so he can steady himself, and Freed has just long enough to realize that this is really about to happen, just long enough to take a gulp of superheated air before Laxus is pressing against him. He can feel the heat of the blond’s length against his skin for a moment; then Laxus tilts his hips forward, and Freed breathes out, and Laxus starts to slide into him.

Freed moans without thinking at all. It’s the heat, mostly, the heat and the pressure because Laxus is bigger than he expected, that and the surreal disbelief that this is actually  _finally_  happening. Laxus lets his hold on himself go, growls something wordless and pleased, and when he grabs at the inside of Freed’s knee it’s to angle the other’s leg up higher, to hold Freed in place while he thrusts forward the rest of the way. Freed chokes, claps a hand over his mouth to hold back the sound he tries to make, but whatever he might have done is more than matched by the low resonance of Laxus’s groan, satisfaction so audible in the sound that Freed can feel it burning sympathetic sensation across his skin.

“God,” Laxus says, and “ _Freed_ ” like Freed’s doing anything at all but glazing over and trying to remember how to breathe. He pushes the other’s leg higher, far enough that Freed’s knee is nearly touching his chest, and when he draws back to thrust in again he goes deeper than before, so far that Freed’s vision flickers hazy for a moment and he groans loud enough that his hand does nothing at all to muffle the sound. Laxus tips his head, casts his face into shadow and shifts his knees an inch wider, and starts to move in earnest, falling into a rhythm so hard that Freed has to reach up with his free hand to brace himself against the wall just to offer static resistance to the force of Laxus’s motions. He can’t catch his breath, can’t speak or think enough to move the fingers stifling the worst of the sound on his lips, and Laxus is breathing so hard Freed can hear his every inhale, his fingers are flexing so hard at Freed’s leg it’s nearly painful. He’s bracing himself with his other hand, doesn’t have the option to reach down and stroke over Freed’s length himself, and Freed is aching for want of friction but relieved, too, because he wants to last longer than thirty seconds and it’s almost too much just having Laxus  _touching_  him and  _over_  him and  _inside_  him and besides, he’s not sure he’ll need to be touched at all, if Laxus keeps this up much longer.

He almost doesn’t need any extra help at all. His skin is starting to flush hot in rippling waves, the sensation running out into his limbs and down to the tips of his fingers, tightening in his chest and arching his back up off the bed until he thinks maybe he should give some kind of a warning, when the blond takes a shuddering inhale and holds it, thrusts hard once and again as his rhythm goes to pieces. Freed can feel Laxus come, can hear the sighing satisfaction under the groan on his exhale. His eyes are shut, when Freed can bring his own gaze back into focus from the edge of anticipation he was on, his whole face relaxed out of its usual stern lines and into something so soft Freed feels like he’s intruding.

Then Laxus opens his eyes, blinks down at Freed, and his mouth falls into a frown, his brow tightens into disapproval. “You haven’t finished.”

Freed blinks. His cheeks flash hot, embarrassment instead of arousal, pointless under the circumstances but unavoidable all the same. “I. I’m sorry.” His hand isn’t enough to cover his face but it can shade his eyes, disguise the worst of his red cheeks from Laxus’s gaze. “I--”

“Why are you apologizing.” Laxus lets his hold on Freed’s leg go, sits up and slides away. Freed is expecting him to climb off the bed, to pull his clothes back on and leave in silence; he jumps when Laxus’s hand comes back down on his hip instead, braces him back to the bed as if Freed had any intention of going anywhere. “Don’t cover your face.”

Freed can’t refuse an order from Laxus, even this one. He lets his hand slide away, curls his fingers into a fist on the sheet alongside him and stares at the ceiling while his cheeks do their best to flame hotter still now that they’ve been uncovered.

He’s still thinking about that, furiously trying to force his skin to cool by sheer willpower, when Laxus’s fingers touch against his entrance again.

Freed jerks again, startled into a high squeak of almost-protest, but Laxus doesn’t pull away, just tightens his grip at Freed’s hip to steady his movements as he eases a pair of fingers back inside him.

“You liked this, right?” He’s pressing in harder, as deep as he can reach, and there’s heat rushing over Freed’s skin again, shock and disbelief and sensation all flickering together. “Is that right?”

“Oh,” Freed says, and “ _god_ ” as Laxus’s fingers press in against him, and he’s starting to shake again, his legs are trembling uncontrollably against the sheets. “Laxus?”

He didn’t mean it to be a question. It’s his runaway voice that swings up as Laxus slides his hand back, spreads his fingers wider and thrusts in again. When he laughs Freed can feel the gust of air against his skin, brushing warm as a touch against the inside of his thigh.

“You’re sticky from me.” There’s a brush of warmth, lips grazing over Freed’s skin; he’s still shuddering when Laxus pulls back and keeps talking. “That’s kinda hot.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Freed whimpers, coherency deserting him utterly, and then Laxus lifts his head, and touches his tongue to the flushed ache of Freed’s cock, and Freed’s coming without time to give a warning. The sound he makes is more of a wail than a moan, the jolt that shocks through him more relief than pleasure, but Laxus keeps moving his hand, slicks his tongue up over sensitive skin, and the quiver of culmination eases off into pleasure, languid warmth flooding Freed’s limbs until he’s limp and trembling on the bed and thinks he might never move again.

Laxus is remarkably gentle about sliding his fingers free, deliberately slow with his movement as he comes back up over the bed; when he drops to falls heavy to the sheets it’s alongside Freed, not on top of him, even though Freed turns in immediately with all the inevitability of iron turning towards a magnet. Laxus looks exhausted, sated and glowing with satisfaction, and he reaches out before Freed can formulate a question or a request, folds his arm around the other’s shoulders and drags him in so close Freed’s mouth bumps against the dark pattern of his tattoo.

Laxus’s breathing falls slow and heavy within minutes, even with the overhead light still on. Freed can’t imagine sleep, can’t actually move to get under the blankets or turn the light off without disturbing the blond, but that’s okay. Even with his skin sticky and his hair a mess, he’s absolutely certain he’s never been this happy before in his life.


End file.
